


Follow Me Down

by Cup_aTea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Dark Phil Coulson, M/M, Vampire Phil Coulson, dub-con, for lack of a better word, mindfuckery, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cup_aTea/pseuds/Cup_aTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a new Agent, Clint notices there’s something unusual going on at SHIELD at night.  People are turning up looking sick with no memory and no explanation.  When Clint begins investigating he gets more than he bargined for. </p><p>Warnings in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone worried about the tags, see notes at the end of the chapter. Also if you think there should be other tags listed let me know.
> 
> I don’t usually like darkPhil so this one took me a little by surprise.

SHIELD was clearly going through some kind of epidemic. People would walk through the hallways in the morning looking sickly and tired—and not in the way that meant bad ops and shitty canteen coffee. Clint noticed as soon as he was released from the recruitment center and working in SHIELD headquarters. At first he thought, maybe it was something to do with the cafeteria, but after a few weeks there with no ill effects, he thought it must be something else. As he focused more closely, it became clear that it was a small group of people, usually only one each morning, now and then two.

Clint started a mental roster. His second guess was some kind of secret project being cooked up in the labs, maybe something going through testing phases. As a new agent, he had limited access to personnel databases, but he used what he could to match up schedules, duty assignments, anything he could think of. In the end, that theory didn’t scan either. 

The first time he heard anyone mention it, he was in the mess eating with some of the junior agents he’d gotten to know. Eric Yamada sat down with a cup coffee the size of his head and looking like he should probably be in bed, and the whole table took notice.

“What’s wrong, Yamada, go too many rounds with your girlfriend last night?” one of the agents joked.

“Or did the SHIELD boogey man get you?” another agent, Emerson, teased as Yamada scowled.

“The what?” Clint asked.

“Haven’t you heard? About the boogey man who lurks in SHIELD the middle of the night, and ambushes agents who go out alone?” said Emerson.

“You’re so full of shit,” Clint laughed.

But when he asked Yamada later, all the guy could remember was getting off his shift at one-thirty the night before and then waking up in his bunk. He had no idea how he’d gotten home, just that he’d had violent dreams.

Clint found ways to make casual conversation with the others, and they all had similar stories. People out late unexpectedly or coming off a shift, and waking up feeling sluggish and ill without a reason why. They all seemed to be in the early hours of the morning and always alone. The whole thing reminded him of stories they used to tell in circus about shapeshifters and demons who would overtake a person in the middle of the night, only to curse their waking hours.

As he gathered more stories, he tried to find ways to get information from the senior agents. It was SHIELD, so they had to know what was going on. And clearly, nothing much was happening to stop it. It took him longer because he knew only a few them, and the only one he ever really spoke with was Agent Coulson because the man had convinced Fury that Clint should be allowed to use his bow.

Hill stared at him for a solid half minute when he tried to ask her, and Sitwell laughed and asked him if he was afraid of SHIELD’s ghost stories. Coulson just listened indulgently before turning his attention to a new mission they were working on.

And then one evening when Clint was doing a round through halls, he met Emerson, looking ill. When Clint asked, he said he was fine. “Just a bad night,” Emerson said. “You know how it goes.”

Clint shrugged. “If you need someone to hang out with, you know where to find me,” he said.

“I was actually going to Coulson’s office. He’s a pretty good listener. And he’s here most nights too, you know, working on special projects. He practically sleeps in his office.”

Clint made his goodnights, brain already leaping ahead. So Coulson was really the person to ask. The guy was sharp and Clint was sure all the senior agents knew something was going on. Clint didn’t have much, but Coulson was a fair guy, so he was willing to bet that if he laid out everything he had, Coulson would let him join in investigating. Clint could show him that his focus was useful for more than just sniper missions. Maybe he’d have a chance to sit on that incredibly comfortable-looking couch.

With that in mind, he climbed into the vents and made his way to the section above Coulson’s office. Coulson was at his computer, the only deference to the late hour was that he’d removed his suit jacket and hung it in the corner.

Emerson was already there, standing in front of Coulson’s desk.

“—thought I’d let you know. I know we lowly junior agents can’t know all your plans, but I thought it might help.”

Coulson chuckled. “Thank you, Agent. I appreciate your assistance.” 

Clint could see Emerson crack a smile through the grates of the vent. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Emerson left and Coulson went back to work. He sat there typing and working on reports for almost half an hour before locking his computer. He left his office, and Clint quickly realized that if he was going to follow him, he was going to need to be on foot.

Clint caught up to Coulson again once he was out of the vents and kept out of Coulson’s line of sight as he followed him through SHIELD. Coulson was moving with purpose, making his way into the bowels of the building. Clint could only hope they were following some kind of trail left by SHIELD’s boogey man.

Suddenly, Coulson paused mid-stride and turned to look over his shoulder. He frowned as he caught sight of Clint.

“Agent Barton,” he said.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Clint said, squaring his shoulders. “I can help.”

Coulson’s frown deepened before he appeared to make up his mind. “Let me show you what I’ve found,” he said. He beckoned Clint forward so they could walk side by side.

They turned the corner and Clint found himself slammed into the wall. As his back hit the concrete, his brain went, _‘Shit, Coulson,’_ while he thought of Marra Richards’ voice saying, _“I remember passing Agent Coulson in the hallway after my shift—I must have bumped into him or something.”_

“What I’ve found is a blind spot in the camera grid, and the security patrol won’t be by for another thirty minutes,” Coulson said smoothly.

Coulson’s arm was like an iron band across his chest and he was pinning Clint’s body with his own. Coulson lowered his face to Clint’s throat, nuzzling against his pulse point and drawing a deep breath. Clint struggled against his hold, and then Coulson exhaled against his skin and Clint felt the fight drain out of his limbs. His heart was still banging in his chest with fear and adrenaline, but a slow creep of arousal was joining the mix.

“What is this?” Clint said sluggishly.

Coulson, who was still nuzzling close to Clint’s throat with his nose bumping against Clint’s skin, ignored the question. He said, “It’s not very polite to eavesdrop on people in their offices.”

Clint gasped as Coulson hit a sensitive spot. “How did you know?”

“You made more noise than an elephant, Barton. Maybe a human might have missed it, but we’ll have to teach you to be better than that.” 

“Why am I not punching you in the face right now?” Clint said, trying hard to focus.

“Two reasons. First, because I could put you on the floor in seconds. Second, because you’re under my thrall and I don’t like having to fight for my meals.” Coulson spoke the last words directly into his ear and Clint shuddered. His cock was filling in his pants. Coulson’s hands had moved down to settle on his hips, no longer needing to hold Clint back.

“I do so love when we get fresh blood. I’ve had my eye on you for months now, watching your progress. So much potential, but you’re still so rough around the edges, like that stunt in my office. Maybe I should have called you on it there,” Coulson said. “I would have dragged you out of the vents and laid you down on the couch after I got you out of these dusty clothes.”

Clint could picture it vividly—Coulson springing up faster than he could prepare for and hauling him down with ease; Coulson taking off his clothes and setting him on the couch like a ragdoll while his pheromones made Clint docile under his hands—the whole image sent a shiver of fear down his spine.

“The femoral artery is equally good, you know,” Coulson added squeezing Clint’s thighs hard. 

Clint moaned, his head falling back against the wall as his arousal spiked. 

“I didn’t think things like you actually existed. I thought you were just old stories,” he bit out.

“Sometimes the old stories are the truest,” Coulson said rumbled.

Clint shivered, shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Coulson. The man—vampire?—was licking his pulse point repeatedly. Clint’s body arched as that tongue stroked his skin, his cock thick and aching. There was something almost familiar to the action that made Clint’s mind twitch even as his body writhed in Coulson’s hold. 

Coulson drew back far enough to speak. 

“If you’re going to prepare yourself, Agent Barton, this is your moment.” And then he was opening his mouth against Clint’s neck.

Coulson bit down and it hurt. It hurt every bit as much a person sinking their teeth into flesh should, and Clint felt his body struggle, recognized it as his body’s last ditch instinct to attempt to save itself. And then. And then…

Pleasure flooded him, filling every corner and swallowing him up. Clint was vaguely aware of standing in the corridor, his mouth hanging open, before the sensation overwhelmed him. At first every time Coulson took a draught, another wave would wash through him and rack his body. But before long, Clint couldn’t make out one wave from another; he just floated on pleasure while Coulson took his fill.

Sometime later, Clint began to come back to himself. The first thing he noticed was Coulson licking repeatedly at his neck, fussing with the bite. The next thing he noticed was that someone was whimpering. As Coulson continued, Clint realized it was himself. He blinked hard, trying to focus.

Clint drew a new breath, chest shuddering like it was the first he’d taken in a while, and Coulson lifted his head. 

“Just another minute,” he said, before going back to Clint’s neck.

The pleasure subsided in Clint and left him shaky. Coulson held to his word and pulled back a few moments later. As soon as Coulson was no longer holding him in place, Clint found himself tilting. Coulson caught him and lowered Clint gently to the floor. He pulled Clint into his lap, and Clint found himself trembling in Coulson’s arms, unable to do anything else.

“The sensation can be very strong when you’re not used to it, so give your body a few moments to adjust. I’ve closed up the bite, so you won’t have a mark. And you shouldn’t feel the effects too badly tomorrow. I didn’t take too much since you’re still new to it, and Emerson was kind enough to give me a top up before bringing you to me.”

Clint grunted.

“Oh yes, some of them come willingly. Some, like Emerson, will do all sorts of little favors for my attention. I make most of them forget. But some of them, they like the thrill. Some like the struggle, the danger—SHIELD agents are adrenaline junkies after all. Some just like the moments of pure sensation. Those I let remember. Some of them will invite me back and it’s always good to have a willing source. But what about you, Clint? I almost think you’re too clever. If I take your memories, once again you’ll see the pattern and track me down, and we’ll find ourselves. Right. Back. Here. So I think it’s better if I leave you with them, don’t you?” Coulson crooned, nuzzling his cheek against Clint’s so he could speak right in his ear.

Clint couldn’t really speak yet, only whine in response.

“Shhh, let’s get you up before the patrol comes. We’ll get you back to your quarters.”

They got up, and Clint found himself stumbling through the halls, with Coulson at his side and a solid arm wrapped around his shoulders. Coulson led him to his quarters and unlocked the door with ease. Coulson pulled him inside and aimed him towards the bed. Clint stumbled forward and pitched onto the bed face-first. He was already half-asleep. He thought he felt Coulson remove his shoes, but when he roused the energy to look at the man, he was standing in front of the door. Clint blinked but couldn’t hold focus.

“Goodnight, Agent Barton,” was the last thing he heard before his eyes slid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Clint is trying to track down something ambushing agents and it turns out to be Coulson. Coulson lures him to an empty part of the building and takes his blood. They don’t have sex but Clint gets hard against his will and basically has an orgasm. It’s also clear that this happened to other people.
> 
> Re: the mindfuckery, Coulson is nice to him before this point and takes care of him after. He also implies that he may have done this to Clint before and then made him forget.


	2. Chapter 2

When he closed his eyes, Phil Coulson could still remember the last day of his life. Warm summer air on his face, heavy with the smell of gun powder; the wet cough in his throat as his blood sank into the Massachusetts ground; a dark shape that loomed over him as he struggled for breath. He also remembered the first day of his death: the painful brightness of the sky and the grass; the rank smell of spoiled blood mixing with the sweet smell of fresh (not that he knew what he was smelling at the time). He remembered crawling through the grass to the nearest body and then spitting out the boy’s blood when it proved foul. He had crawled over that boy to the next, a sweet thing whose dark blue coat was already stiff with blood, but whose eyelashes still fluttered. He drank deeply of that one till there was nothing left and the body grew cold beneath him. It gave him enough strength at least to get his legs under him and stagger to the next body. There he fell to his knees and drank again.

It took a few decades, but there came a time when Phil forgave his sire fully for his turning. There was nothing quite as sweet as the passionate blood of a young person, when they were still so willing to throw themselves into any pursuit. To be faced with a whole field of them—Phil grew old enough to understand the temptation, as his own living days fell further and further away. 

\---

Phil Coulson loved it when SHIELD got fresh blood. Professionally, he loved the opportunity for improvement in agency. New recruits meant time spent determining each new agent’s skills, and nudging them toward the development tracks that would bring out their best attributes: field agents who show a strength for R&D, accountants who have the potential to become analysts, and so on. Coulson was usually the kind ear in contrast to May’s stoic silence and Maria’s “another three drills!” attitude, so he often heard more personal stories that helped make those determinations. The time spent also helped with his more personal line of recruitment. 

Phil would go on the first day to the recruitment center when they had a new group, and stand up front with the other senior agents. He would use the time to observe the new group. Scenting the air was always invigorating. There wasn’t much difference from one class to another, but just knowing there was a new group to sample brought a smile to his face. Phil kept a regular stock within SHEILD of course, but the difficulty was that agents often got rotated out to different posts, and died, if not frequently, then regularly. It was always good to have a new supply available. He would find one or two new followers in the new class, but he would also enjoy sifting through for the forgetters. He had been at SHEILD for more than sixty years, and he still got a thrill at watching the looks of fear, looks of revulsion slide into uninhibited pleasure.

In this class, he had his eye on the guy with the arms. The kid had been going around as a mercenary that SHIELD had code-named Hawkeye before Sitwell brought him in. Hawkeye had quite an impressive resume, as did Clint Barton before him. Phil was keen to see what he could do for SHIELD. He’d already recommended to Fury that Barton be allowed to keep using his bow as a field agent. 

Physically he was tempting as well, and he had that spark that Phil craved. A vitality he hadn’t felt himself in more than two hundred years, a taste that he ached for when he watched it on display. It made his mouth water.

There was a moment in his office when Phil was truly tempted. Barton became a regular visitor there. He seemed to respond well to Phil’s calm and mild manner, and he had heard that Phil was the reason he could use his bow. On this particular day, Barton stopped by after his time on the range. He was all-over sweat, t-shirt clinging to pectorals and biceps, and he was grinning about some improvement R&D had made to his bow.

Phil had stepped around his desk and encircled one of Clint’s wrists with his fingers. His other hand rose to Clint’s cheek.

“Sir?” Clint had said.

 _Shhhh_ , had thought Phil and Clint had swayed on his feet, relaxing under Phil’s hands.

Phil had buried his face in Clint’s neck where he could breathe in the young man’s heady scent. He found himself licking reflexively at Clint’s pulse point, as if preparing the spot for a bite. Clint’s blood was still pounding after his excitement on the range. Phil had had to physically step back to stop himself from tasting Barton then. He had dimmed the man’s memory and sent him to get some water and a shower. Barton had walked away thinking he was no more than a little dehydrated, and Phil had taken to two of his regulars’ beds that evening to slake his thirst.

It was too soon, Phil knew. The agency needed Barton to be well and truly integrated with SHIELD, and he was already certain that Barton would not take the news of Phil’s true nature easily. He would have to wait until Clint was a little more established before showing him the truth.

Still, Phil knew patience at his age. A little waiting would do no harm—Barton was still rough around the edges. Phil looked forward to smoothing them out. In the meantime, he sampled a few of the junior agents and circulated through his regular supply. Emerson in particular seemed jealous of the new batch of recruits and parried for position. Phil let him, in the knowledge that it would be useful in the future.

It was amusing when Clint began trying to work out what Phil was. Phil made a note in the Observational Skills portion of his file and gently redirected him. He paid attention as Barton continued asking questions, and he ignored Fury’s raised eyebrow when Hill mentioned it in a meeting of the senior agents.

It was almost time. 

He put a plan together. Once the chosen evening had arrived, he called Emerson to his office. The agent had been very attentive lately, bringing Phil coffee and takeout. He had taken to lingering in Phil’s office, always chasing that edge of pleasure until Phil was obliged to remind him how long it took the human body to replenish blood. But today, that would prove useful to Phil.

“I need your assistance, Agent,” he said when Emerson arrived.

“What can I do?”

“I need you to get Agent Barton to come to my office this evening, discreetly. He should be finishing his shift shortly.”

“Of course, sir,” Emerson said, and Phil wasn’t imagining his disappointed tone.

“I could use a drink before you go, if it’s not too much trouble,” Phil said, looking up over his glasses.

“Yes sir,” said Emerson, his hands at his collar before the words had finished leaving his lips. Phil held in his smile. 

He got up from his desk and sank his teeth into Emerson’s neck. Phil took a long draught. He wasn’t certain how much he would get from Barton later, and he didn’t want to go in unprepared. Emerson went boneless against him as usual, riding the sensation until he climaxed inside his trousers. Phil closed the wound and propped him back on his feet.

“There you go, Agent,” he crooned.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Emerson. His face was pale but triumphant looking as he fixed up his collar before leaving.

Phil settled in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can hardly believe I posted this in August of last year. I thought for sure it was October or November. Time flies, I guess. 
> 
> I really did want to write a little more of this, but I wanted it from Phil's POV and it just wasn't working. I think I've finally got it to a point that I'm happy with. (I still can hardly believe I'm over here writing a darkPhil. Can't believe, but enjoying.)


End file.
